


Truth

by rebelxxwaltz



Series: Arizona [4]
Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelxxwaltz/pseuds/rebelxxwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it finally feels like, here at the end of everything, is truth. Part 4 in the AU 'Arizona' series, reinterpreting the events of 'Population 25.' Walt/Vic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in the works for a long while, especially if you note that it is the 4th installment in the 'Arizona' series. The progression of that series is as follows:
> 
> One  
> Next  
> Need
> 
> And now this new story, which is an AU version of 'Population 25' based on the circumstances created by the previous three fics. If you haven't read those, this one won't make much sense!
> 
> Warnings for sexual situations and adultery for this series are still applicable here. Also some dialogue from the episode(s) has been utilized, but certainly not for profit. I don't own Longmire, in case anybody was wondering. Nope.

_Anything can be construed as an act of love under the right circumstances, or so they say. Challenging a madman to a duel, for example, might fall under this category. So too could collaborating with an untrustworthy enemy for lack of any other option in the pursuit and protection of that love._

_Such are the instances where a man like you wears his heart on his sleeve, no longer caring that it's there for all to see. But this, what's happening right now, is not one of those times. This is something else entirely._

_There's blood, and some of it is your own. It's not fresh, but it's still damply soaked into your shirt and the humid heat generated by your bodies has only served to refresh the sharpness of the familiar metallic tang. Some of the blood is hers, too, but you've both moved far past the instinct to comfort and nurture and blasted off onto another planet of initiatives._

_Whimpers and moans rise between you, and it's at the point of distraction where you can no longer tell who the noises belong to. Some of the cries erupt from the wrong side of anguish, but the pain has melted so far into the passion that it only adds another log onto the illicit fire. It's right there in her eyes, the bald unquenchable need which reflects your own, and the hitch in her breath reminds you that every last sensation is part of that._

_You should have gently removed each other's clothing, cleaned up and gone to sleep, but the physical and emotional demands were too pressing. You should have slowed things down, retired to the bedroom or at least maneuvered to the sofa for some measure of superficial comfort, but you ran out of time the very instant her short fingernails dug into your skin as she gripped the front of your shirt. Your hands are too greedy, mouths too eager to wait. There are rips in both your garments now that weren't put there by the ordeal you've just been through._

_The small desk by the window has so far proved sturdy enough to withstand the abuse, thumping against the wall repeatedly as the frenzied push and pull continues. You can still hear the echo of the crashing sound made by the base unit of the portable telephone as you knocked it to the floor while hoisting her onto the flat surface and yanking her panties out of the way, can still feel a strange and darkly bubbling sense of relief that the cord has been torn from the socket and the machine will provide no further interruption such as on her previous visit._

_She'd been right to leave you standing here with your dick all but hanging out back then, confused by her reactions and filled with self-righteous indignation and misdirected guilt as you were, but things are so different now. Urgent. Evidentiary. Life-affirming._

_If Arizona was ground zero in the explosion between you, this is the blast wave you've been running from ever since. Her hands are grasping everywhere and you're buried deep— deep in her body and even deeper into the higher metaphysical aspects of your frantic union._

_It isn't an act of love, although it was forged from the uglier facets of that emotion. The parts of love that stay hidden deep inside, never to be shown to anyone— the fear, the hunger, the longing to possess and to claim. The insecurity and the selfish need to be needed above all others._

_More than anything else it is an act of desperation; but as she shudders and pulses in your arms what it finally feels like, here at the end of everything, is truth._

* * *

**5**

Walt nearly failed to notice the ringing of the telephone, with such a loud collection of thoughts already pinging around in his brain. He needed to get to Denver. And maybe on some unacknowledged level he needed to get away from Durant for a couple of days almost just as much.

Truth be told, it wasn't the best time to be away. Branch seemed increasingly unhinged, and his suitability for duty was questionable even by his own admission. Ferg was diligent but lacked experience, and in the grand tradition of bad timing Vic was off on a weekend trip with her husband.

That last one was what Walt had the most trouble thinking about. Maybe if he went to Denver and focused his attention on helping Henry he could stop himself from noticing her absence, could somehow tamp down his jealousy and squelch the urge to wonder what she was doing at any given moment.

Things had been unbearably tense between them since the night she'd shown up at his cabin several weeks back. They'd broken all the rules with their bodies, wild and willing in the dim firelight, and he'd crossed one of his most thickly drawn lines— he'd told Vic he loved her, and Walt wasn't sure there was a path of retreat from that confession.

Out of the corner of one eye Walt could see an unusually shaped dark object laying on top of his dresser. Vic's hastily discarded black lacy bra had been placed there in plain sight, when he could have so easily hidden it away and squashed down the memory of how the inky fabric had contrasted against the mesmerizing softness of her skin. Walt had thought about the things Vic said to him that night, and maybe waking face to face with that provocative reminder every morning was something like his first step toward being honest with himself.

Maybe he just didn't want to pretend anymore.

The ringing noise sharpened and tickled Walt's inner ears, breaking the fretful trance he'd been in as he packed his things for the trip to Denver. The voice on the other end of the line was one he never would have expected.

"Hey, hey! Can you hear me? It's Sean. I had to— I had to climb up to get a signal." His voice was distant, somewhat tinny.

Walt's eyebrows furrowed. "I can hear you."

"There's been an accident. N—nobody's hurt, but Vic is gone."

_Gone…?_

"Sean, take a breath. Tell me what happened."

He obliged, and Walt couldn't help but notice the lack of animosity in the younger man's voice. After their last few snappish encounters it worried him nearly as much as the actual words, which were delivered in a rapid ramble.

"Vic went down the road to get some help, and soon after a car came from that same direction. And as it passed, I could see the driver. And it was Ed Gorski. I'm afraid he might have kidnapped her."

Walt's gut clenched, the sensation tight enough that it left no room for guilt as he felt a resurgence of his disdain for Sean blooming alongside the swell of fear. He remembered back to that day in his office where Sean brought the photos of Walt and Vic in Arizona, to how he thought that Sean didn't understand his wife or know how to protect her or really love her for who she was.

At the time he'd been ashamed of himself for thinking that way. Who was he to judge, to assume he knew better? It wasn't his place to interfere in a marriage or impose his standards of how things should be between a husband and wife. Now, though? All Walt could see behind his eyelids was a blank canvas of resentment, tempered by a savage confidence which told him this never would have happened if Vic were with him.

His missions in Denver were immediately downgraded in importance, and somewhere in the back of his mind Walt knew he'd been pushing them so prominently to the forefront just to avoid his feelings for Vic and the invisible storm raging between them.

Now this… it didn't warrant contemplation. If he lost Vic too, after everything, Walt knew he would be broken beyond repair. And once that happened? The splintering pathways of his destruction would be impossible to reverse or predict.

Abandoning his half-packed overnight bag, Walt shrugged into his jacket and paused just long enough to verify the readiness of his weapons. On his way out the door he picked his badge up off the cluttered desk and pinned it to his chest, almost an afterthought, a hidden screen to keep his chaotic impulses in check.

* * *

**4**

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend._

In Walt's opinion the adage made a hell of a lot more sense when you knew who your enemies _were_ , and whether they might have already engineered a devil's bargain amongst themselves. The saying was widely misunderstood to be of Arabic origin but in truth it was far older than that, first appearing in a Sanskrit treatise from the 4th century. There were times where Walt felt like he was about that damn old himself, almost certainly including the moment where he surrendered both his firearms to the likes of Ed Gorski.

He had no way of knowing if Chance Gilbert were the sole culprit or if Gorski was an accomplice— or vice versa for that matter. The fractious dialogue circled around, to the point where their collective fears for Vic seemed to outweigh mutual suspicion.

"I didn't have anything to do with this. Do you believe me now?"

The weight of the rifle in Walt's hand provided some small measure of comfort. "Nope."

Gorski released a sigh, and there was an odd openness in his expression that had Walt second guessing himself once again. "I didn't think so. I think I'll be keeping your sidearm."

Walt wondered whether he'd end up regaining his Colt by force, or if it would be freely returned to him. He certainly never entertained the idea that it would remain in Gorski's deceitful hands on a permanent basis— that gun was a part of him, almost as much as his badge.

Although there could never be full trust between them, Walt initiated a momentary detente when he allowed his Winchester back into Gorski's care while scaling the fence near the end of Chance's driveway. The tenuous truce was transmitted and received on a frequency made familiar through their shared background in law enforcement, and in spite of his renegade nature it quickly became clear that even Ed Gorski knew who the sheriff was within this power dynamic.

Walt didn't like Gorski stalking Vic, even less so with the 'guardian angel' spin he was trying to put on it. He didn't want the man hanging around anywhere in the vast state of Wyoming, but desperate times called for even more desperate measures and he needed what help he could get. If they made it out of this ordeal alive, Walt vowed that he would set Ed straight on a fair few choice topics including the level of welcome he could expect from the Absaroka County penal system if he failed to leave town for good.

The conversation about Vic's relationship with and marriage to Sean drove Walt pretty close to the edge of his last nerve. He wasn't sure if it was the thought of Gorski trying to rekindle a romance with Vic or the other man's barely-hidden implication that Walt would be a more appropriate match for his deputy than her own husband that was worse. Whatever the case Walt found himself reliving every look, every brush of lips, each lingering press of skin he'd shared with Vic since that fateful night in Arizona. All of them were unquestionably forbidden, undeniably adulterous, and yet the only guilt that overtook him was rooted in the fact that he couldn't bring himself to feel remorse for any of their actions.

Somehow Walt managed to keep his cool and focus on strategizing. Surprisingly, Gorski wasn't that bad of a partner, and even served as the voice of reason in several instances. When Walt felt the other man holding him back, preventing him from blowing their cover and running headlong into danger— not for the sake of the poor fallen highway patrol officer, but for the woman he knew was held captive here because of his past actions, all because of _him_ — Walt knew that his instincts had betrayed his true feelings. He loved her, enough to make him do crazy, stupid things.

Gorski knew it too. The moment Walt turned, wild-eyed and hatless, out of breath, limbs tingling with the urge to spring into action and damn the consequences, the former cop from Philadelphia read the truth between the lines of an already unambiguous statement.

"You better hope Vic's alive. Or that won't be the last man that goes down today."

* * *

**3**

They say that death comes to us all, sooner or later.

Death had come to Martha Longmire far too soon, and there was still a vocal and uncompromising part of Walt that believed her murder was punishment for something he had done. He might not be a religious man, but he was thoughtful and spiritual and concepts such as karma were far too real to him at times. If Martha had lost her life because of something Walt had done, or something he had failed to do, it was his responsibility to set it right.

He'd found a way to do that after Cady's accident— he'd considered that his fault because he'd exercised his selfish desires with Lizzie Ambrose even though he knew he didn't care for her as he should. He'd taken something that she'd offered freely, and the ease of acquisition made it even more wrong for him to care about it so little. His actions had been base, rooted in his apparent need to feel like he was still a man along with a deeply concealed motive to smother down the tender feelings that he held in his heart for his very married deputy.

That price had been paid, but the issues at the core of the problem were still knocking on the door to collect the interest.

Standing under the floodlights and negotiating with an unhinged Chance Gilbert, rage and anguish twisted in Walt's stomach at the sight of the gun muzzle pointed against Vic's temple as the crazed survivalist manhandled her. If Cady had been punishment for his actions with Lizzie, what sins had he committed to compromise Vic? He refused to believe that loving her was wrong, but the things they'd done… no matter how right it felt, he should never have given in to his selfish desires and allowed them to end up in this position.

And what about Chance? If the man was indeed responsible for killing Martha and now threatened the only other woman Walt had ever truly loved, it was an elevated form of poetic justice for Walt to administer retribution with his own hands. It seemed like the only path, the only way to make sure Vic was safe, no matter what happened to him.

"I'll stand in for all my people's crimes, you stand in for all of yours." Walt knew the misdeeds in question were his own in their entirety, so the sting of sacrifice was absent like a phantom limb.

Walt could hear himself quoting Thomas Jefferson as if from a distance. It was almost an out of body experience, and as his eyes drifted over Vic's tormented features it was like part of him had floated out to comfort her only to be blown away on the breeze while traversing the distance between them.

The sense of futility faded as Chance agreed to his terms, and Walt found himself strangely heartened by Vic's astonishment at the sight of Ed Gorski. His deputy was fierce and resilient, looking nearly ready to leap into fight mode in spite of her apparent injuries as Chance relinquished his hold on her.

"Walt, you can't do this!" Vic's voice cut through, and it was like she could read his mind. Or maybe that was just what Walt heard. Maybe in his heart he wanted to believe that she knew every little thing about him.

"It's okay, Vic. You'll be alright."

That was what mattered. She would be safe, and if the cost this time was his life then maybe the balance of karma in the universe would shift back onto an even keel.

He watched her eyes through the rear windshield for longer than he should have. They called to him with a message too clear for anyone, least of all the husband beside her in the back seat of the beat up Ford, to misunderstand.

Tucking the pain and the fear away, Walt slowly raised his gun.

* * *

** 2 **

Walt was alive.

He wasn't sure at first; the world had spun on its axis and the sky above was so black that for a moment he thought the curtain had come down— either that, or the afterlife bore a striking resemblance to the backs of his eyelids.

Once Walt realized he was laying on the ground and his eyes were still open, the periphery of his vision stained by color from the grass and the wood and the harsh outdoor lighting, he startled into alertness with the memory of where he was and what he was doing. He sat up rapidly and looked around, cringing at the sudden throbbing pain in his left arm. His right hand came across, feeling the hole in his jacket and the area around it damp with blood. The triage of unfortunate experience told Walt that the wound was notable but not overly serious.

Surveying the area, he took note of the prone form of his opponent. Slowly getting to his feet and recovering his Colt from the dusty ground, Walt approached Chance and took stock of the red stain spreading along the left side of the man's plaid cotton encased torso. He was still breathing, in heavy gasps, and for Walt that was reason enough to bend down and carefully collect Chance's sidearm from beneath his shaking fingers. The man was without a doubt clever enough to feign injury or death just to get a second shot in, dishonor notwithstanding.

It was a real mess. Walt sighed, dreading the idea of leaving Chance alone and walking two miles back to his truck to radio in. The survivalist's family and disciples had scattered, but there was no telling whether they might double back to retrieve their leader even if Walt handcuffed him to the rough porch railing. For a fleeting moment he nearly smiled, thinking of Vic's admonishments concerning his lack of a cellphone. Then he saw a flash in his mind's eye of her face streaked with tears and dirt and probably blood, the expression one of terror and loss, and he couldn't smile anymore.

After securing Chance to the best of his ability, Walt sauntered over to the spot where he had fallen and plucked his trusty hat out of a patch of scrubby grass. It had landed brim up, so hopefully his luck hadn't run out just yet. Walt was brushing dust and plant matter off the crown of the hat when he heard the roar of a familiar engine gunning it up the hill. But who…?

It was a bit of a surreal experience, watching his own official vehicle skid to a stop just past the point where the gravel drive receded into the brush. The driver's side door was half-open before the tires found their final footing, and Walt's eyes widened at the sight of the impatient figure clambering free of the vehicle.

Vic. His deputy. His lover. A veritable hurricane in his life with her wild blonde hair, bloody jacket, and nerves of absolute steel.

Her shoulders sagged with relief when she saw him on his feet, and she walked toward him with a cautious glance spared for the unmoving form of Chance Gilbert. Vic's eyes narrowed, and Walt had the distinct impression that if she had been a man she would have chosen that moment to spit her disgust into the un-manicured lawn as a signifier of undiminished spirit.

Standing toe to toe, they stared into each other's eyes for a long moment. His hat was still in one hand, Colt in the other. Feeling clear of danger for the first time through the whole ordeal, Walt holstered his weapon. He looked at his boots for a slow moment, then back to Vic's haunted gaze.

"You should have waited for backup. What if he'd killed me? You're not even armed."

Shaking her head almost imperceptibly, Vic's parted lips trembled. "Wouldn't have mattered. If you were—" Her voice almost broke. "—if you were dead, I would have wasted that fucker with my bare hands."

He knew it was the truth.

There weren't any words to express the swell of emotion Walt was feeling as the adrenaline sapped away from his overtaxed body. Or maybe that was the blood loss making him woozy— it was hard to tell. He leaned toward Vic, hands gripping the outsides of her arms and holding them both steady. Eyes drifting shut, he pressed his forehead against hers. The bridge of his nose traced the sensitive skin along the edge of Vic's eye socket, and he started feeling warm all over at the sensation of her fingers clutching the open flaps of his jacket.

Warm… floaty… no, that definitely _was_ the blood loss. It didn't matter. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do more than that, but they'd been through a lot and it was probably best to start slow.

Vic's breath against Walt's lips as he pressed nearer was almost more than he could take, until through the haze of his perception he became aware of sirens blaring in the near distance. At first he thought it was a portent, an uncompromising reminder of infidelity and all too present consequence. He thought it was all in his mind, until the wailing alarms increased in volume and decreased in distance with surprising rapidity.

Walt's eyes fluttered open, greeted with the edge of Vic's scrunched eyebrow. As the blue and red lights danced through the shadowy landscape, Walt voiced the first concern suggested by the more sensible portion of his brain. "How'd they get here so fast?"

"No clue," she replied. Vic buried her face in his chest for a few seconds, reminding him of that night a few weeks ago where she'd done the same in reaction to his abrupt declaration of love. "I just called it in while I was driving back up here."

The fact that Vic had arrived on the scene without Sean or Gorski had escaped Walt's notice up until that point, but now he wondered about the implications. At least, until he saw Branch Connally's preferred county vehicle sliding smoothly to a stop behind the Bronco. Walt gently released his hold on Vic, taking a half step backward and giving her a quick once over without even meaning to.

Branch, as usual, felt no need to mince words as he sidled up with his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans. "Sounds like this is gonna take all night to clean up. I figure we'd better get the ball rolling."

Vic's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What the hell were you doing all the way out here, anyway?"

The younger man succeeded in displaying a facial expression that was at once a superior smile and a laser-focused scowl. "Looking for both of you, since apparently that's _my_ job now." He gestured behind him with a twist of the neck. "Found your husband down the road in the back of an abandoned car. Luckily, a passing HP agreed to take him into the hospital after I explained the situation. He didn't look too hot."

There was a strange undercurrent of acrimonious tension between Vic and Branch that Walt wasn't sure he understood, but any explanations would have to wait until later. What could have evolved into a tender moment was broken, brought back to earth by the chill of reality. Right now, they had work to do.

The blonde woman who had just released her grip on his right elbow emitted a snort. "Work? You wish. As soon as the ambulance gets here you're hopping in before you bleed to death."

Walt hadn't even realized he'd spoken out loud.

Hat newly perched on his head, he put his hands on his hips and invaded Vic's personal space by just a fraction. Sometimes he loved it when she was bossy, but other times he felt the need to reassert a small measure of authority. "The first person getting into an ambulance tonight, at least after our suspect over there—" He jerked his thumb toward Chance, who was wheezing and clutching at his wound. "—is gonna be _you_ , deputy."

"Welp," Vic quipped, popping the 'p' at the end as Branch's sharp gaze flickered back and forth between Walt and Vic. "Looks like we're both going to the hospital, then. Congrats, Branch— pretty sure you just became the lead on this investigation."

More sirens could be heard in the far distance. "Right. Until the FBI swoops in here like a pack of vultures." Branch shook his head. "You better fill me in on what happened, from the beginning."

Leaning against a tree stump, Walt scrubbed one hand over the stubble on the bottom half of his face and peered at Vic as she outlined her portion of the events in a professional, no nonsense tone. Seeing her gesticulate and focus in on the details was comforting to Walt, until he saw her sway slightly and raise a hand to her forehead with a grimace of pain.

"You alright?"

"I don't know."

It was a brief exchange, but it epitomized their entire situation better than anything else Walt could think of.

The scene was suddenly flooded with paramedics, highway patrol, field agents, and a few guys Walt was almost sure were volunteer firefighters. Those open frequencies were both a blessing and a curse.

Branch rolled his eyes as Walt and Vic bickered over who should receive medical treatment first. In the end, the frustrated medics simply bundled them both into the back of an ambulance and left it for Durant Memorial to sort out. As the vehicle lurched into motion, Walt felt Vic's cool fingers gliding beneath his own where his hand was perched atop his thigh. Their digits intertwined until they were grasping firmly with their palms pressed together.

Vic leaned her temple against his shoulder, and Walt wondered what the future would bring…

* * *

**1**

"No serious damage."

_Really?_ Walt felt like he'd been run over by a tractor trailer. Vic _looked_ like she had.

"Now you just need to go and buy some lottery tickets and take some time off work."

_Fat chance of that._ There was too much on the line— he had to keep going, keep searching for answers, or the ghosts and demons that plagued his existence would never allow him a moment's peace. He believed Chance when the man said he hadn't killed Martha. There was no reason for him to lie, not when he surely thought he was about to finish Walt off once and for all. The pieces didn't fit, and deep down he'd already known Chance wasn't responsible for his wife's death. So the question remained— who was?

"And Deputy Moretti, if you still have a headache in 24 hours, come back and see me. A grade two concussion is a really serious injury."

_A little needle and thread and I'll be back to normal…_

What the hell _was_ normal in the treacherous new landscape of their lives? Vic had been trying so hard to hold it all together, but with the circumstances stripped away and the law enforcement instinct and bravado left outside the door of the dubiously private hospital room Walt could see the cracks widening. He'd been sewn back together while she sat there breaking into pieces, and all he knew to do was to reach out and hold her for all his remaining strength was worth.

Vic sobbed into the open front of Walt's shirt, and she fit so perfectly into the circle of his arms while he comforted her as best he could. It was therapy for him, too, because he'd be damned if bundling her tight against him and rubbing her back in soothing motions didn't feel more right than anything else that he'd done in the past twenty-four hours.

He had no idea what had happened to her husband, only overheard Doc Weston telling Vic that Sean had been treated and released. What kind of man leaves the hospital when his wife has suffered potentially severe head trauma? Was it hypocritical to think of Sean as the bad guy when Vic had blatantly abandoned him to run back to Walt? He wanted to be here, to be the one taking care of her, but where did that leave them when they were forced to return to the real world?

"Come on," he said gently, knowing that they'd have to face the music sooner or later. "I should get you home."

"No." She tensed in his arms.

"Vic," he sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders as she clung to him. "You need to rest." Walt didn't want to add the next part, but he knew he had to. "And I'm sure Sean must be worried."

One short laugh escaped her lips. "I seriously doubt that."

Pulling back far enough so that he could see her face, Walt frowned. "I don't understand."

Vic folded her arms over her chest, eyes seemingly fixed on a crack in the tile flooring. "I can't go home, Walt." Her gaze rolled toward the ceiling, edge of her pinky finger pressing against the corner of her eye to suppress a stubborn tear. "Sean… he knows."

_He knows…?_

Memories flashed through Walt's mind, visions of heat and skin and muted orange motel lighting. His fingertips recalled sensations of compliant curves beneath his touch, arching and twisting as he flexed and thrust in tandem with the erotic hitches in her breathing.

_Knows what?_

There'd been that day in the barn, dappled sunlight catching the gold threads of Vic's hair as she fit herself against him. The things he'd wanted to do… even the mildest of those yearnings had been rope enough to hang him as a guilty man.

_Surely he couldn't *really* know._

When Vic came to his cabin that night, Walt truly believed neither of them had meant for it to happen. Their attraction was a powerful, inevitable force, something they'd both been fighting against while they tried to do the right thing. It was probably when he realized that the battles were one thing, but this was a war they couldn't win. She'd felt so good, looked so enticing laid out beneath him in the firelight. He'd started to wonder what the right thing even _was_ , and his doubts only grew with the confusion he felt when Martha's voice drifted through quiet cabin air that was thick with carnal tension.

He was confused because he didn't feel ashamed or guilty or unfaithful. Not in the slightest. Walt Longmire's heart had felt ready to hammer its way out of his chest, a lump forming in his throat as he listened to his departed wife's voice and simultaneously watched the woman draped across his sofa, undone in the wake of their interrupted lovemaking. That was when he'd finally realized it— he would always love Martha, but he was _in_ love with Vic.

Somehow it was so appropriate for Martha to be the one who fully awakened that knowledge in him, even if it scared him stupid all the way down to the tips of his toes. His wife had never been one to let him deflect or hide how he was feeling, could call him out on his bullshit with nothing more than a single look. It was a quality that Victoria Moretti most assuredly shared.

But whatever Sean knew, or _thought_ he knew… it was certainly nothing so sacred as all of that.

Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Walt became aware that his shirt was still hanging completely open. He fumbled for the snaps, suddenly cognizant of nurses and orderlies moving efficiently through the hallway just beyond the open door. "I uhmm—"

Vic blinked at him, eyelashes fluttering as she chewed her lower lip. He could sense her unease, but there was little he could do to alleviate it without knowing all the facts.

"What does he know? About how—" How could a man even find the words? "About… what happened in Arizona?"

It looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "No. Well, not exactly anyway."

He felt like he was losing the thread. "Well, the photos—"

The trademark eye roll was accompanied by an impatient shift of her weight from one hip to the other. "It's got nothing to do with that, don't you get it?"

Walt didn't get it. "I'm— I don't think I follow. Did you tell him what we—"

"He knows I'm in love with you, dumbass!"

_Oh._

His extremities felt momentarily numb, and Walt wasn't sure if it was a medical side effect or a flat-out emotional swoon like something out of a Harlequin romance. Mouth opening and closing, he regarded Vic's fraught, anxious features with fascinated awe. She had never looked more beautiful.

"What?" Too bad his mouth hadn't managed to catch up with the poetry of his sentiment-flooded brain.

Vic handed Walt his hat. He hadn't even noticed her turning to retrieve it from the familiar institutional hospital guest chair. "You heard me," she drawled. Fingers brushed as the item was transferred between them along with a buzzing jolt of sensual electricity.

Their bodies drifted closer, and Walt could feel the waves of heat rolling off Vic's tensely wound form. They needed to leave now, before they treated Durant Memorial to a display that would put the tawdriest daytime soap opera to shame.

"Let's get out of here." He splayed one set of fingers along the back of her elbow, attempting to guide her toward the exit.

Resisting, Vic placed her opposite hand firmly against his sternum. "I told you, I'm not going back there."

He peered at her lips and then into her apprehensive, changeable irises. A silent exchange took place between them, a hot wire of eye contact that conveyed understanding and much, much more.

"It's okay. We'll go to my place."

* * *

** 0 **

In the Bronco, which had been efficiently retrieved from the crime scene with assistance from some handy volunteer firefighters, she told him about the body bag.

Maybe it was easier for Vic without looking directly at him. Or it could have simply been a comfort thing— how many vital conversations had taken place between them in the cab of this vehicle since they'd known each other?

He had been planning to ask what happened at the compound. It was clear there had been something beyond the official version she'd relayed to Branch. Walt thought he would soften the atmosphere, sit her down on the front porch with a cup of coffee or a beer so they could quietly enjoy the view and talk it out. As was often the case, however, his deputy chose to do things on her own terms.

As he pulled off the road into his usual parking spot adjacent to the cabin, Walt briefly considered what it would have been like if their roles had been reversed. He'd all but threatened to kill Ed Gorski or anyone else in his path if Vic hadn't made it out of Chance's place alive, and Walt knew that Vic's erstwhile stalker had understood what he was really saying in no uncertain terms. What must it have been like for Vic to have those feelings erupt so violently and unequivocally in the midst of such massive stress? Sean had already suspected some form of infidelity, but nothing could have prepared him for the savage revelation that his wife's entire heart belonged to another man.

The vision of a cold black plastic pouch containing Vic's lifeless body invaded Walt's thoughts as he peered out the front windshield, and he didn't even realize he had reached for her hand until her fingers flexed and alerted him to how tightly he'd been squeezing.

It was something like half past twelve in the afternoon, which was an incongruous time of day to be thinking such heavy thoughts. As they walked up the well-trodden path to the front of the cabin, Walt had a brief moment of panic wondering whether he had any edible food in the house or if he'd left his dirty socks and boxer briefs somewhere embarrassing— those thoughts everyone has when an uninvited guest shows up, never mind someone they want to impress.

He levered himself up onto the porch, and the bright quality of light as he turned around to help Vic do the same brought an unanticipated recollection of the day so long ago when Vic visited his property for the first time. The circumstances had been less than ideal, and he should have known right then and there that his feelings for his deputy were not entirely platonic. Why else would he have been so intent on hiding the fact that Lizzie Ambrose had spent the night?

Of course he knew what Vic must have thought they'd been doing, in spite of the fact that they were both fully clothed and Walt was even wearing his socks from the previous day. In spite of his relative innocence, he'd still been ashamed of his actions. The sense of _wrongness_ that had permeated his entire non-starter of a romance with Lizzie had been incredibly present that morning, and now Walt knew it was because deep down he'd felt a sense of being untrue both to Martha's memory and to the slowly blooming affection for Vic cradled within.

Vic grasped Walt's forearm near the elbow joint and he did the same to her, enabling him to easily lever her up onto the rustic wooden surface. Perhaps he pulled a little too hard or maybe Vic overcompensated and lost her balance. Whatever the case, she swayed against him and one of his arms wound around the curve of her waist to steady her.

They ended up in an intimate encore version of their embrace at the hospital, this time minus the tears. As Vic's face turned into the side of his neck, Walt peered out across the wide expanse of his property. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue that appeared to deepen as the sun tracked its way between horizons, with not a cloud to be seen. The landscape closely mirrored the sense of clarity Walt experienced as Vic's arms wrapped around his midsection, fingers splaying atop the weathered cotton material covering his back.

He couldn't resist the urge to place a kiss at the edge of her eyebrow, allowing his lips to linger as she breathed against his collarbone. Peering down he could see her tangled hair and soiled jacket, and if he knew anything about women at all he figured she might be wanting a hot bath and some clean clothes to wear… Cady usually left a few items in the laundry room cupboard, or maybe something of his could be rigged to fit. The idea of Vic in one of his t-shirts caused a salacious thrill at the base of his spine.

"We should go inside— I think we could use a shower and some fresh clothes."

She snickered into the sensitive skin above his collar. "Hmm, oh really?"

If it had come out sounding suggestive, Walt hadn't meant it to. His brain was fuzzed at the edges with arousal both moderated and enhanced by raw emotions, and it was probably just the teenager that lays dormant in all men trying to make a horny mess out of a delicate situation.

Walt knew he could control himself. He'd had a lot of practice.

What he hadn't counted on was Vic. She certainly wasn't like some other women; not shy, not fragile, and most definitely not willing to let him off the hook when it came to the hotly contested tournament of attraction.

When Walt turned around after shutting the door behind him Vic was close— too close. She rested both her hands on top of his pectoral muscles and pushed gently, backing him against the door. He swallowed heavily, willing the stubborn, swelling erection in his shorts to take it easy. Leaning up, she pressed her lips to the edge of his jaw near his earlobe. Her fingers dug into the material of his shirt, the bite of her short fingernails providing a counterpoint against the softness of her kiss.

He knew he should stop it. They were both a mess. Vic had sustained a concussion, and his wounded arm still throbbed with a dull pain. _That wasn't the only thing that was throbbing…_

As Vic's touch dragged down over his ribs and her lips traced across his stubbled cheek to the corner of his mouth, Walt made a last ditch attempt to be sensible. "Vic—"

"Shhh."

Their lips connected, and sense was suddenly the last thing on Walt's mind. One of his hands wound upward to cup the side of Vic's face, tilting her head to the side and deepening the contact. She shuddered, gripping both sides of his torso where the untucked shirt covered his belt line. The fingers of Walt's other hand drifted down to trace the seam of the pocket on the back of Vic's jeans, spreading out and tugging her lower body upward to mold against his.

Releasing a breathy moan, Vic sank her teeth into Walt's bottom lip and slid her hands up under his shirt to explore the increasingly heated surface of his skin. Walt couldn't seem to stop himself from trying to get closer, craving the intimacy and the stimulation and the simple thrill of blood pumping hard through both their veins.

Intellectually, he knew their actions were reckless. "We should slow down. Your head—"

Vic's fingers had twisted around and wiggled their way into the spaces between the snaps of his shirt, tugging hard enough to pull them apart. "I need to feel you, Walt."

They kissed again, tongues twisting, and he ran both hands up to her shoulders to push the blood-stained jacket down her arms and onto the floor. Walt knew he would capitulate all too easily, overwhelmed by the urge to claim Vic as his own.

"I don't wanna hurt you." Walt released a sharp gasp as Vic worked his pants open, eager fingers diving beneath the waistband of his boxers to explore the hard length of him. Frantic urgency trumped Walt's pragmatic concerns, his hands gripping the hem of her purple cotton top and yanking it over her head.

Their hands were busy unfastening and pushing fabric out of the way as he hoisted her onto the edge of the desk. The portable phone and a random accumulation of items fell to the floor with a clatter, and Vic pulled Walt in so hard by the open front of his shirt that the edge of the placket ripped away from the thinner material of the body. The tearing noise only turned him on more, and he groaned as he helped her wiggle one leg free of her jeans and wrap it around the back of his thigh. Working his fingers beneath the edge of her panties, Walt reveled in the wet heat that he found there. He explored her, pressing deeper, needing more.

As was the case on so many other occasions, they were on the exact same page. Vic whimpered, rolling her hips and frantically tugging at the loosened leather and denim beneath the small of Walt's back. "Show me we're both still alive."

They were half-clothed and short on oxygen, but the compulsion was too powerful. Walt only just managed to exert some form of patience as he hooked his fingers around the edge of Vic's underwear and tugged them aside to clear the path. He sank into her with a slow quivering exhale, and the fire was irrevocably lit.

Vic's voice was ragged, warm lips brushing against his own. "Don't hold back."

He wouldn't. Not anymore. From now on, he would give her everything.

* * *

_The small hours of the morning have always been the breeding ground for doubts and misgivings._

_In the here and now, wrapped around your lover as she sleeps peacefully with her head nestled in the crook of your shoulder, it's easier to recall the hard truth that the woman you've just spent hours making love to is still another man's wife._

_After that first explosion of passionate need you'd ushered her into the unfinished bathroom for a mutually satisfying hot shower, allowing yourself momentary freedom to ignore the sight of her removing the wedding ring you'd tried to forget about and carefully placing it on the edge of the sink between the toothbrush holder and whatever fruity hand soap your daughter had installed on her last visit._

_You tell yourself it doesn't matter because you're in love, as if that hadn't been the mantra or the excuse of a thousand sets of doomed couples throughout history. Romeo and Juliet. Lancelot and Guinevere. Walt and Vic? So many examples of how desire and destruction can follow one another hand over fist, and why should your situation be any different?_

_And yet, you feel in your heart that eventually everything will work out because this is right. You feel the rightness down at the very core of you, at the bottom of the same fathomless internal pit where you felt the wrongness before. She sighs in her sleep and shifts against you, her naked arm draped across your naked abdomen as you lay half-covered by the quilt but fully exposed in so many other ways._

_The honesty between you is the simplest expression of your devotion, but even the path of truth is plagued by consequence. The future is uncertain but the moment itself is perfect— blood, sweat, and tears to be worn as badges of honor earned on the battlefield of love._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for this one! This was intended to be the last in the 'Arizona' series, but... I'm not so sure it will be. I never expected this AU 'verse to take on such sustained life, and it might just be that there's still more to be told. What do you think? :)


End file.
